


In the Dead of Night

by ShadowsOfWho



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:13:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1204078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowsOfWho/pseuds/ShadowsOfWho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, she isn't sure, whether he sleeps at all. Later she finds out why he doesn't want to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dead of Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatfantasyworldofmine](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thatfantasyworldofmine).



She never sees him sleep. At first, she isn't sure, whether he sleeps at all. He is wide awake when she goes to sleep and wide awake when she gets up, he is wide awake even when she goes into the kitchen in the middle of the night to get herself a glass of water. Later she figures out that he actually does sleep, every two months or so and never more than a few hours. It can't be healthy, not even for his superior Time Lord biology. Over time, she has fallen asleep in the library; on the kitchen table; in the console room, listening to his stories of dogs without noses; one time he even had to wake her up in the bathroom, passed out on the fluffy rug, wearing nothing but her bathrobe after a particularly exhausting and muddy adventure. But all she ever sees of his sleep is a locked door.

Until one day - a lazy, staying at home and just relax after nearly dying the day before sort of day - coming out of the bathroom on her way to her comfy, queen-sized bed, she hears pained groans and whimpers, coming from the library. The noise sends cold and certainly not pleasant shivers down her spine. She turns around and her step fastens, nearly running to get to him and help, wondering what could have happened in the safety of the Tardis. The moment she reaches the open door, panting and worried to death, he sits up on the couch and lets out a piercing scream, "No!"

She runs to his side, her fingers finding their way into his sweaty hair. There is an expression of deep terror on his pale face.

"Doctor." He doesn't react. "Doctor, it's alright. You're in the Tardis," she says, trying to find something that will soothe him and take away this horrible look in his wide opened eyes. "I'm here. It's me, Rose. I'm here. It's okay. Just a dream, you hear me? Just a nasty nightmare."

The muscles in his neck and shoulders are tense under her caressing hand. He's stiff and panting and  _why doesn't he react?_

Another miserable moan, "No. Please. Don't hurt them. They've done nothing wrong. Please. Don't. Don't do this to me."

Shocked she realizes he is still asleep. She grabs his shoulders to shake him, hard, but he doesn't take notice. Completely unresisting, his head falling back and forth, he stares right through her, looking at something horrible that isn't there. She has never felt so utterly helpless.

When she had a bad dream as a child, she tries to remember, her mum would wake her up with a warm hug and soft lips on her forehead, then make hot chocolate and listen to the story of her nightmare, as stupid as it might seem. But now she is alone, there isn't any hot chocolate and - worst of all - the Doctor just won't wake up, however hard she shakes him, however loud she yells his name.

 _Slap!_  Her hand colliding with his cheek, so hard it leaves a red mark on his skin and burning guilt somewhere in her chest. He doesn't even flinch, just continues whimpering and moaning and pleading for the lives of others.  _They are long dead now_ , she thinks.

Unable to wake him, she sits down, half beside half behind him, hugging him tightly and whispering soothing nothings in his ear, for her own comfort as well as his.

"Please. I don't want to. I don't  _want_  to!" His voice breaking halfway, the last word barely a whisper. He clutches her wrist, hard enough to leave bruises, but she doesn't try to stop him.

She wants to help him; wants to tell him it's alright, just a dream. But it isn't. It's the Time War he's dreaming about, she is sure. Nothing is alright. He is alone; his people are gone and he had to kill them. She desperately wants to help, but she just isn't enough. How can she be enough to make it better, when she can't even wake him up?

As if it wasn't bad enough, he's crying now. Silent tears from blindly staring eyes, that give her the creeps.

There's something wet on her cheek.  _Oh._ She hadn't noticed she is crying, too.

"I killed them. Oh God, I killed them. They're all dead, because of me."

Sorrow, pity, but a tiny bit of relief. When they're dead, that means the War is over. He just  _has_  to wake up now.

But he doesn't wake up. Instead, he suddenly goes limp in her arms and falls back on the couch. His expression is more weary than peaceful, his face too pale, his forehead covered in sweat, but his eyes are closed now and it seems he is finally fast asleep.

She longs to talk to him, to see him awake and his usual babbling self after the shock of seeing him in this state, but she doesn't dare to wake him now. He undoubtedly needs every minute of sleep he can get. She suddenly understands very well, why he never sleeps, and why he was exhausted enough to fall asleep on a sofa despite his 'superior Time Lord biology'. She wishes she didn't.

She returns to her room to get some sleep herself, but she can't. She shifts and shifts, unable to find a comfortable position. She wraps the blanket around herself, then kicks it to her feet, then pulls it back again and realizes that the Doctor hasn't got a blanket. Although she knows he is clothed and the Tardis always provides a nice temperature in all used rooms, she grabs her own blanket to bring it to him. It's not like she will have any use of it herself this night.

For a moment, tapping through the silent and dim-lit corridors on bare feet and in her jim-jams, arm full of blanket, she thinks it might have been a dream. She'll open the door to the library to find it dark and empty, the lights will flicker on and she will hear the Doctor calling from the console room, where he'll be happily tinkering with bits and parts she doesn't even try to understand: "Rose, what are you doing up at this time? You know that humans need a ridiculous large amount of sleep to stay happy and healthy. And there is this planet I wanted to show you tomorrow, the people there glow in the dark. You're gonna love it."

But it was real and when she enters the room, the Doctor is still asleep on the couch. He's curled together as if he is trying to hide in himself, the only thing visible of his head being his hair, which is even more deranged than usual. After putting the blanket on him, she can't bring herself to leave. People are supposed to look peaceful in their sleep, younger and happier than any other time. With the Doctor it's the complete opposite. He looks older now and sadder, like his full 900 years and grief and terror.

She carefully lowers herself on the free space behind him. Her hand slips around his waist to rest on his chest, where she can feel his double-heartbeat. Maybe she can make it better now, just give him a little closeness and affection. (She doesn't dare to use the word  _love_.)

He won't know it. She'll just lie here for a while, hugging him, hopefully lightening up his dreams, and then leave him to wake up alone and spare him the embarrassment. She has to remember not to forget the blanket or he will know that she knows.

Her nose in his hair, his lean and slowly relaxing body against his, it takes her only seconds to fall asleep.

 

 


End file.
